


Brush strokes

by electricblueninja



Category: Super Junior
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - College/University, Art Student Ryeowook, Awkward Flirting, Idiots, Jock Donghae, M/M, life modelling, marshmallow couple
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-02
Updated: 2015-08-31
Packaged: 2018-04-12 12:17:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 7,962
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4478954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/electricblueninja/pseuds/electricblueninja
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Donghae is a sports science student looking for a quick buck. Instead, he finds an artist, and the unexpected possibility of romance.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

It was entirely coincidental that Donghae even noticed the sign.

 

Weirdly enough, it was all because of Hyukjae, who had spotted a pretty girl in a nearby café and generously insisted that Donghae wait outside while he ~~tried to get her number~~ bought them both coffee to take to their next lecture.

 

Usually, Donghae would have done his darnedest to make his best friend’s life a little harder—he would have gone in with him, maybe even played a little game he liked to call Confuse The Shit Out Of The Ladies by hanging off of Hyukjae’s shoulders and waist and paying an inappropriate amount of attention to his butt. But Hyukjae had been a little down lately, so just this once, out of the goodness of his heart, Hae was willing to put the pranks aside and let Hyukjae have a snowball’s chance.

 

He didn’t want to hover by the door like some awkward creeper, though, so he’d wandered over to the noticeboard across the way and scanned the notices, looking for something vaguely interesting. He’d been considering a part-time job for a while, anyway: might as well use his time wisely and read the damn notices. He’d managed to get into Seoul National on a sports scholarship from Mokpo, but he was in his third year now, and was slowly, grudgingly having the realisation that he needed to start conserving his funds if he ever wanted to move out of his hellhole of a dorm. He scanned the notices absent-mindedly—it was all the usual stuff; loads of part-time jobs in hospitality and bartending, unwanted finance and law textbooks for sale, a small handwritten sign advertising for a male life model, accommoda—Wait, what?

 

_Male life model? You need glasses, Hae?_

 

It definitely said what he’d thought it did.

 

_Wanted: male life model for final year art project. 30 minutes per week until project completion. 50,000KRW/_ _session_ _. If interested, please contact the number below._

 

Donghae tilted his head to the side, contemplating, and was still standing there when Hyukjae emerged from the coffee shop behind him, coming over to stand at his shoulder.

 

‘Hae…you look like a retard,’ his friend declared, his cheerful tone belying the insult.

 

‘So you got her number then? Good for you.’ Without turning, Donghae held his hand out for his coffee. ‘Hyukkie…what does a life model do?’

 

‘Hn?’

 

Donghae pointed with his free hand.

 

Hyukjae snorted. ‘I don’t know, man. You probably have to get naked or something?’

 

‘That’s it? Just get naked? I can get naked.’

 

‘ _Fi_ _fty_ _thousand won_? For _half an hour_? Dude, for fifty thousand won, _I’ll_ – ’

 

‘No you won’t. I saw it first,’ Donghae interrupted, and snatched the flyer from the wall.

  
  
  


Me: _Hi, this is about the modelling job? My name’s Donghae; I’m a third year in sports science. I’m interested._ Sent at 4:57PM

 

Artist/pervert: _Hello Donghae-ssi. Thank you for your interest. My name is Kim Ryeowook; I’m a fourth year in art. Would you be available to meet sometime in the next few days to discuss the nature of the position? I have a few particulars, due to the nature of the project. Thank you for your understanding._ Received at 5:12PM

 

Me: _Hi, Ryeowook-ssi~. Yes, I can meet tomorrow morning at 10?_ Sent at 5:32PM

 

Artist/pervert: _Thank you, Donghae-ssi. 10 o’clock is perfect for me. Would we be able to meet at Campus Café? I’ll wear a red hat so you’ll know who I am._ Received at 5:45PM

 

Me: _Sounds good! See you tomorrow._ Sent at 5:47PM


	2. Chapter 2

Now, unlike Hyukjae, Donghae was not totally fixated on the thought of getting tail. But after hearing the ambiguous name, Hyukjae had cooked up an elaborate mental fantasy about what kind of a person Kim Ryeowook would turn out to be—‘I bet you anything she’s some hot crazy art school pervert, Hae!’—and had barricaded the door, refusing to let Donghae leave until he changed out of his t-shirt into something with no sleeves. And when Donghae had complained that it was too cold for sleeveless shirts, Hyukjae had assumed a stern expression and handed them his very own favourite sleeveless hoodie with such an air of self-sacrifice that Donghae had been unable to refuse.

 

Fortunately, it wasn’t as cold out as the overcast weather had suggested, and he managed to stay warm by jogging at an easy pace the ten minutes to the café.

 

He paused on the threshold, scanning for red beanies.

 

There was one red beanie in his immediate line of vision: a girl, with long chestnut hair, sitting facing him, her face illuminated by the glow of her laptop screen.

 

Maybe her?

 

But he kept scanning, just in case, and a second red beanie caught his eye: a guy, sitting in a booth towards the back of the café—facing the door as well, but with his face downturned, scribbling something on a notepad.

  
Donghae stood there for another minute or so, contemplating. But if he had to guess, the artist was going to be the person who preferred to use their hands, right?

  
So he made his way to the booth.

  
‘Kim Ryeowook?’

  
The guy’s eyes widened and he looked up like a startled rabbit. ‘Y-yes?’

  
Donghae blinked back at him, momentarily transfixed.

  
Kim Ryeowook had been looking downwards before, and his face had been pretty much out of view, buried under that pile of red wool.

  
Turned out it was a really nice face.

  
‘…I’m…Donghae?’

  
Ryeowook just looked at him, his lips parted slightly, his dark, arching eyebrows the only interruption to the paleness of his skin.

  
A moment’s awkwardness settled between them as Donghae realised he’d turned his own self-introduction into a question.

  
He tried again, this time initiating a handshake. ‘I’m Donghae.’

  
Ryeowook stood politely and shook his hand, his grip firm and friendly, although his face showed embarrassment.

  
‘Oh—of course. It’s nice to meet you, Donghae-ssi. Thank you for coming. I’m sorry. I was…distracted. Please, have a seat. What would you like? To drink?’

  
‘Oh—no—that’s alright, I can—’

  
‘Please,’ said the artist, with a smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes, and a tone that brooked no argument, ‘This is on me. Coffee?’

  
Reluctantly, Donghae acceded, and Ryeowook trotted off to the counter.

  
Donghae slid into the booth, opposite from where Ryeowook had been sitting, and his eyes fell on the sketchpad, which was still open.

 

It was a biro sketch of the whole café, done in bold strokes, yet somehow it managed to seem both detailed and refined.

  
And, Donghae realised with a start, he was the centrepiece of it. From when he’d been hovering on the threshold.

  
Which meant that this guy Ryeowook had drawn it in…what? A couple of minutes?

  
Donghae sat back, impressed, just before Ryeowook came back with their table number, which he set down and slid back into the booth. He flipped quickly to a new page in the notepad as he did so, which Donghae took to mean that he had not been supposed to see the sketch, so although a compliment was on the tip of his tongue, he swallowed it back and kept his silence.


	3. Chapter 3

When the stranger walked in, Ryeowook was momentarily shocked into immobility.

 

He was only a little above average height, and there was nothing in particular about him that was striking, but he carried himself with an air of quiet confidence that immediately attracted Ryeowook’s attention. It was his self-awareness, perhaps, but even poised on the threshold, looking about in confusion, searching for someone, the man seemed to exude some sort of ephemeral charisma.

 

He had a solid physique; that much was clear on account of the fact that his “jumper” was sleeveless. Another time, or maybe if he saw a similar article of clothing on someone else, Ryeowook might have marveled at the stupidity of it—something that had no sleeves wasn’t going to keep anyone warm. As it was, though, his analytical abilities had taken a backseat, and his artistic eye only saw a marvelous invention that exhibited all of the contours of an athletic body whilst keeping the wearer completely decent.

 

The aesthetic in Ryeowook studied the stranger’s physique more closely, seeking imperfections in the lines of his body, but found none. His shoulders were broad, but only enough to accommodate a strong chest. His waist was slender, but the line from shoulder to hip, readily apparent under his “jumper” (which might have been slightly too small) was smooth and unexaggerated. Under well-fitting tracksuit pants, his legs were lean and strong and muscular. He was perfectly proportioned, but average. He had not a single alpha male quality, yet he carried himself with such a sense of easy, effortless self-awareness that it made him powerful, and Ryeowook couldn’t look away.

 

In fact, he was the epitome—the literal picture—of everything Ryeowook had hoped to convey in his project on masculinity.

 

He briefly considered approaching the stranger and asking if he would be willing to model for him, but dismissed the thought as ridiculous. For one thing, most men in tracksuits were not of a type that would respond well to random and easy-to-misconstrue requests, like ‘Can I draw you?’ For another, Ryeowook was here to meet ‘sports science student Donghae’, and it seemed kind of rude to invite someone else to take his place literally five minutes before he was supposed to meet him.

 

No, it would be better not to act on this bizarre impulse. Ryeowook took a mental picture of the man standing in the doorway, and picked up his biro and began to sketch him instead, trying to capture the moment. He drew quickly, trying to make the lines as natural and unhesitating as the stranger had seemed.

 

He had almost finished his two-dimensional effort when the sound of an unfamiliar voice speaking his name broke his concentration.

 

‘Kim Ryeowook?’

 

Startled, Ryeowook looked up, and by some freak accident, it was the stranger he was drawing, staring at him with large dark eyes that were almost bovine.

 

‘Y-yes?’

 

‘…I’m…Donghae?’ said the stranger, and all Ryeowook could do was stare at him, admiring the smooth lines of his face; the way it was handsome without being hard, and beautiful without being soft. The way his brow furrowed a little, and an expression of slight confusion pulled the corner of his mouth downwards.

 

‘I’m Donghae,’ he repeated after a moment, and Ryeowook came to his senses enough to get to his feet and greet him properly.

 

Donghae’s hand didn’t dissipate in his.

 

It was warm and firm.

 

_Oh god. You’re real._

 

‘Oh—of course. It’s nice to meet you, Donghae-ssi. Thank you for coming. I’m sorry. I was…distracted. Please, have a seat. What would you like? To drink?’

 

Donghae raised a hand and began to refuse, but Ryeowook cut him off. ‘Please,’ he said, ‘This is on me. Coffee?’

 

The expression of reluctance on Donghae’s face was totally transparent. Ryeowook could see the two thoughts conflicting in the other man’s eyes: the first, _I don’t want you to pay for me;_ the second, _I don’t want to be rude._ Politeness soon won out, and Donghae nodded slowly, his mouth smiling but his brow furrowed in an expression so innocently readable that it bordered on cartoonish.

 

_Coffee, Ryeowook,_ his brain reminded him sharply, and Ryeowook took himself off to the counter, taking the opportunity to try and recover his composure.

 

_This is too weird._

 

He looked back at the booth to confirm he hadn’t just imprinted the stranger’s face on someone else.

 

He hadn’t. And Donghae’s profile was perfect, too.


	4. Chapter 4

‘I’m grateful you contacted me, Donghae-ssi,’ said Ryeowook, smoothing the paper absentmindedly. ‘It’s been difficult to find the right person for my project.’

  
Donghae snuffled, unsure whether to be amused or flattered by the secondary implications of the other man’s statement. ‘I pass, then?’

  
‘Oh, you’d be perfect,’ Ryeowook replied sincerely, which meant he was oblivious to the joke, and Donghae felt a twinge of mild guilt. Also, confusion. What did he think he was doing, making jokes about himself like he was hot shit? _Put it away, Prince Syndrome_.

 

‘But it’s entirely up to you, of course,’ Ryeowook was saying, glancing up to meet Donghae’s gaze. (Donghae was fascinated: he had never seen someone be so shy and self-assured at the same time.) ‘I mean, from where I’m standing, you’re exactly right for this. But I’ll explain what it’s about and what will be involved, and you can decide if you’ll be comfortable with it.’

  


Donghae nodded, sitting back as their coffees arrived. Ryeowook thanked the waitress, and waited till she had left before continuing.

  


‘Do you know much about art, Donghae-ssi?’

  


‘Honestly? Nothing.’

  


‘Okay. Well, let’s just say I’m doing something a little avant-garde.’

  
Donghae had no idea what that meant, but he nodded anyway.

 

‘I wanted to work on the concept of masculinity. So, um, I basically need to work with someone who embodies certain masculine qualities, because I can’t capture something that isn’t there.’

  


He was still just sitting there nodding, so he thought maybe he should add something to the conversation, like a question. Something smart would’ve been great, but what came out was ‘Will I have to get naked?’, which attracted a couple of stares from nearby tables and a startled expression from Ryeowook.

  


‘N-no,’ Ryeowook replied, recovering his composure, ‘you don’t. Shirtless, for one piece. Not _naked_.’

  


‘Oh.’ _Congratulations, Hae, you big gumby. You’ve scared him--look at his face. No, don’t look at his face. He’s avoiding your eyes now._

  


‘Oh. Sorry. I just thought...’ he began, at the same time as Ryeowook said ‘Were you expecting...’ and they lapsed into silence again, Ryeowook biting his lip as he stirred his coffee.

  


‘Well, I’ll do it,’ Hae volunteered. ‘My days are pretty full up with classes, but I’ve got free time on Wednesday and Friday nights.’

  


Ryeowook, who had been drinking his coffee, made a small noise of pleased assent and put his cup down hastily.

  


‘Really? Thank you, Donghae-ssi, I really appreciate it. Like I said in the advertisement, it’s fifty thousand won for thirty minutes, and if we go over I’ll make sure you still get paid for your time. That’s the beauty of school funding.’

  


‘Sure. How soon did you want to start? I’m free from tomorrow. Where do we do this thing?’

  


Ryeowook smiled, face lighting up with genuine excitement, and something in Donghae’s stomach did something weird.

  


Must’ve been the coffee. He didn't usually drink it.

  



	5. Chapter 5

 

Donghae met Ryeowook at his studio at seven, as instructed.

 

Well, actually, he met him out the front of the art school, because, as Ryeowook warned him, it was after hours and he wouldn’t have been able to get into the building by himself. Hae was hoping he wouldn’t be early: what he knew about art was only that there seemed to be a real lot of money involved. He had once heard about a painting that was literally nothing but a blob on a white canvas, and apparently it had been worth a small fortune, which seemed weird to Donghae, but maybe he just had no taste. In any case, he felt like the art school security wouldn’t take kindly to a jock in a leather jacket hanging around the front doors.

 

Also, it was kind of cold.

 

He found the School of Art more by accident than design. A building like that couldn't have been anything _but_ the art school.

 

He supposed that someone had been paid an awful lot of money to create it, but it had too many bendy bits, and made him feel slightly dizzy to look at.

 

As he moved closer, he spotted a familiar red beanie sticking out from behind a statue. He sighed with relief that he wouldn’t have to loiter: he could already see a security guard by the doors, glaring off into the distance and probably itching for any kind of disturbance.

 

He rounded the statue with an ‘Annyeong!’, and Ryeowook looked up like a deer caught in headlights, which seemed to be a semi-permanent expression for him, probably because of how immersed he was in his drawing. Again.

 

(Donghae glanced down to sneak a look at it, and it turned out to be a photorealistic lead sketch of one of the crumpled maple leaves at his feet.)

 

  
‘Oh, Donghae-ssi! You surprised me. I’m so glad you could make it.’

 

‘Sorry for keeping you waiting,’ said Hae, but Ryeowook dismissed him with a wave of his hand.

 

‘I wasn’t waiting long. I just thought I’d come and take a breather before tonight,’ he said, but the breath of air came out in a puff of frost, and his cheeks were pink...and there was a pile of sketches on the bench beside him.

  
  
Donghae felt like it was too soon in their acquaintance for him to tell Ryeowook that he’d been in the cold for so long that his nose was almost the same colour as his beanie. He satisfied himself by rubbing his own hands together and proposing that they go get started.

 

With a nod and a smile, Ryeowook gathered his things in an ungainly armload and set off in the direction of the gigantic sliding doors that sealed the art school away from the rest of the world, although at this time of day, apparently those doors opened for no one.

 

Instead, Ryeowook veered to the left. It was difficult to see until they drew close, but it turned out the security guard was manning a glass door of normal proportions: presumably, the after-hours entrance.

 

Ryeowook stilled suddenly, and began patting his pockets for something. Because it seemed like the right thing to do, Hae held his hands out for the teetering bundle of paper and pencils and...stuff, and after a strange moment of eye contact in slow-motion, the smaller man handed them over.

 

Locating and extricating his student ID, he turned back to the door and pressed the card against the security panel.

 

The security guard was heading back in their direction from the other end of an unnecessarily spacious hallway, and as Donghae followed Ryeowook through the small glass doors he was bemused to see the guard smiling at Ryeowook in greeting.

 

‘Oh, Kim-ssi,’ he called, ‘Thank you for the coffee last night.’

 

‘It’s getting too cold for you to be going without hot drinks, Henry-ssi,’ Ryeowook chided, his tone almost maternal, and Donghae felt a mild but irrational twinge of curiosity. Curiosity with just the slightest edge to it.

 

Apparently, the feeling was mutual, because the guard’s expression changed, his eyes narrowing slightly as he glanced over at Donghae.

 

'An invited guest,' said Ryeowook, by way of explanation, 'My model, for my final exhibition.'

 

The guard sniffed and shrugged. 'Don't let him break anything.' 

 

Donghae nearly rose to the bait, except that as his hackles rose, he nearly dropped Ryeowook's things, and he was forced to repress his irritation lest he immediately prove the asshole was right.

 

He took solace in reminding himself, as he followed Ryeowook down a winding corridor, that being a security guard must be the most boring job in the world, and wished stupid 'Henry' the crappiest of evenings with all his heart.


	6. Chapter 6

 

 

 

 

 

[ ](http://tinypic.com?ref=6ghaib)

 

 

 

'So. How would you have me?'

 

'Um.'

 

The painfully suggestive phrasing and the concerningly trusting, obedient look Donghae was giving him aside, Ryeowook still had no idea what, exactly, he wanted him to do for their first sitting. Which was going to be a bit of an issue now that they were actually in his studio and he was paying for his time.

 

'Well.'

 

Donghae was looking at him, eagerly awaiting instruction, with the overall effect that he looked astonishingly like Ryeowook's childhood pet dog.

 

Also like Ryeowook's dog, Donghae suddenly seemed to bore of waiting for a command, and moved to take off his jacket, causing Ryeowook, in a sudden panic, to blurt out: 'No no—leave it on.'

 

Donghae looked a little taken aback, but did as he was told, slipping the coat back over his shoulders.

 

Flustered, Ryeowook muttered a thank you, and tried to invent an explanation. 'Just...just the way you came in is fine,' he said. 'This...this session...well, _every_ session actually, I just want you to do whatever feels natural.’

 

Donghae nodded, slowly. ‘Okay…I think I get it…but, like, what kind of “whatever”? I mean, I’ve never modelled before. Don’t you need…like…something _artistic_ , to make art?’

 

 _You’re already a work of art_ , said his brain, with horrifying conviction. _Stop that,_ Ryeowook told it, but it just shrugged and sneered at him. ‘Find somewhere, anywhere, in this space that you can settle for about half an hour, and take up any position you like. I'll need to take a photo each session, for reference, but that's it,’ he said out loud.

 

'You just want me to sit somewhere?'

 

'Sit, lie, stand...seriously, wherever and whatever you like. Whatever you're comfortable with. I was planning to paint, though, so I'll wait till you're settled to set up...?'

 

He trailed off, not really sure what else to say.

 

Donghae nodded, shrugged, and began looking around the space.

 

'How about this?' he said, after a moment or so, and headed off to a wooden bench that stood across from the window. He lay on his side across it, one leg up and a hand on his knee, in what was probably playfully intended as a joking 'sexy' pose, but with the battered 'bits and pieces' dresser and the way the light fell against the exposed brick wall in the background, it actually...

 

'Works,' said Ryeowook, dumbly, and Donghae looked back at him, his eyebrows climbing up his forehead in puzzlement.

 

'It's good?'

 

Ryeowook cleared his throat and nodded. 'It's good.’ _Too good._ ‘Can you... just…wait there a moment, please? I mean, keep breathing, and move if you need to, but just…stay there. Pick something to focus on, and pretend I’m not here, if you can. Try not to be distracted.'

 

'Sure.'

 

Without embarrassing himself further, Ryeowook managed to retrieve his easel, and set it up to the side of Donghae, so that he could position the bits-and-pieces sideboard, in all its bleak glory, in the background. The light from the cityscape beyond the window flooded in through the windows and doors, leaving his subject shrouded in a gentle, almost protective darkness, only gilding his profile in silver.

 

He seemed to have settled in for the long haul: his smiling, open face had become still and inexplicably serious; his eyebrows turned up under the thick mop of his dark hair, and the sharp lines of his profile interrupted only by the semi-conscious parting of soft lips.

 

He gave Ryeowook an urgent desire to paint. The artist snapped a photograph, but gave it only the most cursory of analyses, checking that he had the lighting right, before putting it aside and setting to the canvas.

 

At first, Donghae had come across as having a very... _active_ personality, but he was a surprisingly well-behaved subject. He seemed to slip deep into thought quite soon after Ryeowook told him not to be distracted, and held his position successfully for over fifty minutes before he began to fidget.

 

Ryeowook painted quickly, and by the time he noticed Donghae losing patience was well and truly on his way through the piece. He had focussed, to start with, on Donghae's face, knowing from experience that it was the subtleties in his subject's expression that would be both hardest to capture and most difficult to recreate in another sitting. As a result, most of the painting was large, indistinct sweeps of colour, interrupted by outlines that would become background objects; but Donghae's face he had recreated in as much detail as he could.

 

By the time Donghae mumbled 'Ryeowook-ssi, my arm is starting to get pins and needles,' he needed only say,

 

'That's okay, Donghae-ssi; we're through for today. Thank you.'

 

'I can get up now?'

 

'Yes.' Ryeowook smiled at him. 'You can move now.'

 

Gingerly, Donghae unfolded himself from the bench where he'd chosen to lay. 'Remind me to pick a more natural position next time. Can I see what you did?'

 

'S-sure.'

 

Ryeowook stepped away from the easel, confused by the sudden knots tangling in his stomach as Donghae came to stand by his side, taller than him, and warm, and smelling faintly of leather, and something else, unnameable.

 

This was not usual.

 

He put some distance between them by wandering off to find his wallet and give Donghae his dues, but the tremulous sensation lingered in his stomach, like his insides were a particularly lush garden, filled with butterflies, brushing the velvety tips of their wings over flowers and foliage on a lazy summer's day. Nothing like the cool, dark, sparsely furnished space of his studio on a winter's night.

 

He wondered, silently, if this was what having a muse was like.


	7. Chapter 7

 

 

[ ](http://tinypic.com?ref=35aqb03)

 

 

 

 

 

Truthfully, Hae had been a little uneasy about his first session with the artist.

 

He’d played soccer with his team against another university earlier on the same day, and after the game, Donghae had had to turn down the usual post-game after-party for his arrangement with Ryeowook. But when he had not been forthcoming about the _nature_ of his meeting, his teammates, of course, had jumped to a number of conclusions, all of which had female names. And although he would have preferred to keep it to himself, Donghae was compelled to set them straight—which had gotten a reaction that left him unsettled.

 

Specifically, his friend Choi Siwon had scoffed, and snorted, ‘Careful, Hae. He’s probably a faggot.’

 

Donghae had had nothing to say in reply; partially because the thought had already crossed his mind.

 

Unlike Siwon, though, he didn’t really care one way or another. Some people were like that: it was no big deal, as far as he was concerned. But as soon as Siwon said it, all eyes snapped towards him, and the mood changed, and he wasn't sure he liked it.

 

He’d shrugged it off as quickly as he could. ‘A job’s a job,’ he’d said; ‘we can’t all have a trust fund the size of the sun,’ and that had been sufficient to draw the attention away from himself, and towards who should be paying for the team’s planned adventures that night, and Donghae had been able to take himself off to meet Ryeowook without further ado.

 

And when he found the artist waiting outside the art school for him, polite and smiling, his face pink with the cold, he’d felt mildly ashamed of himself for _being_ ashamed. Kim Ryeowook was very shy and very earnest and very kind, and had done literally nothing to deserve the disdain of people like Siwon, who didn’t even know him.

 

On top of that, Donghae might not know anything about art, but when he saw the canvas after their session…well, even _he_ could see that _that_ was talent. It was only shapes, still, in some parts, but Donghae was looking at what might as well have been a photo of his own damn face, and it was a bit disorienting.

 

‘Wow,’ he’d said, but Ryeowook had just waved a hand dismissively, gone into the corner, come back with his money, and told him  _he'd_ done all the work before seeing him out.

 

Actually, as their sittings continued, Hae began to find himself thinking that there was something kind of cool about Kim Ryeowook.

 

It wasn't something he noticed straight away.

 

It wasn't the loud confidence of Siwon, or the macho of Kangin, or the wit of Hyukjae—none of the types of cool that Donghae was accustomed to—but it was definitely _something_. Donghae wasn't sure what. It might have been his quietness, and his talent for understatement, or even just the way he seemed to _notice_ things—things that other people, Donghae included, wouldn't be able to see without people like Ryeowook to bring them out of obscurity.

 

 

 

The third session was the first time Hae chose a position which let him watch while Ryeowook painted.  
 

Ryeowook had been at an "opening" that afternoon (whatever that was), and he had come to meet Donghae directly after.

 

As a result, he was still wearing a suit, and his hair was neater than Donghae had seen it before, but the seriousness of the formalwear was offset completely by the blush of alcohol, painting a high stripe across Ryeowook's cheekbones, and his palpable excitement about some sort of art deal that he'd managed to make for his paintings—the series with Donghae as the model.

 

These things combined, Ryeowook was more eager than usual to get started, but although he was talkative at first, he quickly settled into Painting Mode, and lapsed into companionable silence.

 

Donghae watched the artist at work, intrigued to be able to observe directly. He'd had a vague sense of when Ryeowook's gaze fell on him, the past couple of sessions, but seeing his dark eyes move between his model and his work was something else entirely. And the artist's intent expression was…really... _cool_. Donghae’s limited vocabulary could find no other way of putting it: the sharp face and fox-like features were hypnotic.

 

Siwon’s jeer from weeks ago burst unbidden into his mind, and Donghae experienced a silent moment of guilt and chagrin.

 

Cutting deeper still was the realisation of how wildly inappropriate and…well… _stupid_ his own misgivings had been.

_Wow. I’m an asshole_ , he realised, uncomfortably.

 

Ryeowook, oblivious, chose this moment to look up and smile and him.

 

Donghae was under strict instructions not to move, and knew that he could not smile back. Which was just as well, because an uncomfortable truth was settling over his heart, heavy and unyielding.

 

_Holy shit. I think_ I’m _a faggot._


	8. Chapter 8

Donghae did not act on this revelation, if that’s what it was. It didn’t mean that anything changed.

 

The realisation was his alone, and he kept it that way.

 

For all practical purposes, life remained the same.

 

It wasn’t as if he suddenly started getting boners over his roommate or anything. It was only when he was with Ryeowook that he was left feeling slightly giddy, and even then, he had it under control.

 

More or less.

 

No surprise boners, anyway, except for very nearly almost in the fourth session, the week after his initial epiphany.

 

He had dealt with this by thinking really, _really_ hard about cockroaches.

 

 

 

Today, he was going in for their fifth and final session.

 

It was a Monday afternoon, so Donghae made his own way into the building. He even made it to Ryeowook’s studio by himself, making only one wrong turn. It was a pity, he thought, that he’d managed to learn the way there, so close to the end of the arrangement.

 

He entered the studio, expecting to surprise Ryeowook by appearing in person instead of via an ‘I’m lost’ phone call. But instead of Ryeowook, the first thing he laid eyes on in the room was a gigantic cardboard box.

 

‘…What’s that for?’ he said, reflexively.

 

‘Today’s prop,’ Ryeowook’s disembodied voice replied, and after a moment, he stood up from behind it.

 

A greeting seemed misplaced, since they’d already begun a conversation, so Donghae just said ‘Oh. Okay,’ and tried to play it cool.

 

The fact that the ruse worked kind of backfired, though, because Ryeowook kept talking. Donghae’s fake understanding was apparently more convincing than he'd thought it was.

 

‘So, I, uh, I turned the heat up for you,’ the artist was saying, as he pushed his hair off his face—a pointless gesture: it fell back over his forehead in a thick curtain instantly.

 

He slipped his hands into his pockets, and looked up through his thick, dark fringe, and equally dark long eyelashes.

 

‘Thanks,’ said Donghae, and held Ryeowook’s gaze until the words sank in and their meaning registered with his brain.

 

‘Wait…why?’

 

Ryeowook’s eyebrows curved, a small furrow forming between them as his own facial expression moved from perplexity to amusement. ‘Um, well, since today is…probably the last session…I was hoping you wouldn’t mind if we started on the…the main work. Today. You know. The one where you...’

 

He bit his lip, as though he didn't know how to finish.

 

'And the theme...well, there is one, today. It's kind of abstract...but...do you think you could find a way...to show me...how you feel about the portrayal of masculinity? Like, what being a man  _means_ , for you, personally? Using the box? Kick it, crush it, stand on it; anything that you want. Only, without a shirt on.'

 

He kind of gave off the impression that _he_ did not feel awkward, but he was expecting _Donghae_ to feel awkward, and that he himself was acting awkward because he had over-anticipated an awkward response.

 

He was right, as it happened, but it still made things more awkward.

 

‘Oh.’

 

Donghae mirrored Ryeowook’s foot-to-foot movement with genuine, heartfelt awkwardness. But then he remembered two things:

 

1\. Ryeowook had interviewed him about this specific thing, right at the start; it was literally part of the job description, and

 

2\. a few weeks ago he would have done it in a heartbeat.

 

In sum, he had no real grounds for refusal.

 

And, more to the point, Ryeowook was an artist, a professional, and he was counting on him.

 

_But...but I don't know what being a man_ means _to me,_ one part of his mind protested. But as he stared at the box, an idea came to him, and after another glance at Ryeowook's gentle, hopeful gaze, another, far more directive part of his brain stepped in and took over the helm.

 

_Just do it, Donghae._

 

‘Well, I’ll, uh…’

 

Having no idea how to finish that sentence, he just let the sentence trail into oblivion, pulled off his coat, and reached for the hem of his shirt.


	9. Chapter 9

 

 

 

 

Ryeowook had stopped painting.

 

Donghae had learned the artist’s priorities by now: it was better to make verbal enquiries, rather than change his position. More importantly, he had learned to sense changes in Ryeowook’s demeanour without visual confirmation.

 

When they’d started these sessions, he’d never imagined that he’d get used to being stared at. But he had. Moreover, he had developed a kind of secondary sensory awareness of when Ryeowook was looking at him. He was even learning to tell which part of his body Ryeowook was concentrating on, and, although he might have been imagining it, he almost thought he could tell _how_ Ryeowook was looking at him. He was beginning to notice the subtle differences in mood, or atmosphere, or whatever. Different levels of intensity in the artist’s appraisal of him.

 

Those moments when he felt Ryeowook’s gaze to be of greater intensity had increased a bit since he’d taken his shirt off.

 

For instance, right now, Ryeowook’s gaze was fixed on Donghae’s chest, at about seventy five per cent maximum intensity. This was fine. Donghae didn’t mind. But he had noticed that the artist’s brush was no longer moving. In the same way that secondary sounds form an aural backdrop in the forest, and are unnoticeable until they stop, and _real_ silence falls, the sound of the brush tip on the canvas was conspicuous in its absence.

 

Donghae waited for the brush strokes to resume, but they didn’t.

 

‘What’s up?’ he asked, unmoving.

 

‘Donghae-ssi…I don’t think I can draw you anymore.’

 

Donghae mulled this over for a moment.

 

‘Okay,’ he said, after a brief consideration. ‘Why not, though?’

 

He heard Ryeowook push his chair back from the easel.

 

‘I’ve been a bad artist.’

 

Despite his best efforts not to move, Donghae raised an eyebrow. ‘What? How? Did you mess up?’

 

‘A little.’

 

‘Can I see?’

 

Another long pause, then a grudging ‘Alright.’

 

Donghae got to his feet and went over to stand at Ryeowook’s shoulder.

 

The painting was beautiful. Ryeowook had left the canvas white around the edges, but painted in the light brown of the box, so that the almost-complete Donghae posing within was framed twice. Donghae hadn’t realised, but he filled nearly half the box almost perfectly, his arms braced against the left edge and his toes curled against the right. His raised knee created a diagonal line through the space, but the lines were smooth instead of sharp, and his painted self’s rain-damp hair almost brushed his shoulders.

 

He hadn’t noticed that it was getting so long, but he reached up and found a soft, damp tendril between his fingers, and smiled at the thought of life imitating art. And it was no exaggeration to say that the painting could have been a photograph, either: except the deft, gentle brush strokes created an impression of tenderness that Donghae had never seen in a photo.

 

‘I think it’s awesome,’ he said, looking down at Ryeowook’s profile. ‘Why don’t you like it?’

 

Ryeowook puffed up his cheeks and blew the breath out slowly, staring at the canvas with a faint bitterness in his eyes. ‘I’ve put too much of myself in it,’ he said softly.

 

Sensing Ryeowook’s sudden withdrawal, Donghae decided to be deliberately obtuse. ‘It’s a painting of me, though?’

 

He got the desired outcome: Ryeowook huffed, and turned to give him a patronising look, a little of his usual attitude, a mixture of slight insolence and gentle indulgence, returning.

 

‘An artist’s job is to convey the emotions and experience of their subject, Donghae-ssi,’ he said, a little colour rising in his cheeks. ‘I think I’ve only succeeded in conveying mine.’

 

‘Oh.’ Donghae returned his attention to the painting, looking over it with fresh eyes. Or rather, trying to see it through Ryeowook’s eyes; searching for his emotions and experience.

 

As he took a second look at the painting, the tenderness of the brush strokes took on a new dimension of meaning. He folded that little compliment up tightly and tucked it away inside a small corner of his chest, then looked back at Ryeowook, who was stared steadfastly at the canvas and chewed his lip, and then eventually reached for his bottle of water.

 

Donghae decided to be brutally honest.

 

‘I don’t see how you got it wrong. You're very talented, Ryeowook.’

 

'I'm a very average painter, actually,' Ryeowook replied, after a moment's hesitation, 'It's the subject that makes art art, don't you know?'

 

He unscrewed the cap of the water bottle and took a long sip, holding the water in his cheeks like a squirrel.

 

Donghae chose that moment to say, 'I think I like you, Ryeowook,' and it was not the best timing, because the entire mouthful got sprayed right out onto his chest.


	10. Chapter 10

Droplets of water began to trickle down over Donghae’s abdomen.

‘Oh my god,’ said Ryeowook, ‘I’m so sorry—I—I didn’t mean to—I wasn’t expecting…’

His expression went from astonished to panicked to mortified; his hands went from around the water bottle to over his mouth, the bottle falling to spill across the floor; he tried to rise to his feet, but the movement was so hurried that the chair behind him toppled, and he lost his balance.

Watching at close quarters, Donghae reached out instinctively to catch him—but as he moved forward, his bare foot slipped in the slick of water spreading across the wooden floor, so, rather than rescuing Ryeowook, he fell on top of him, nose to nose in a slightly damp tangle of limbs.

So close that the tendrils of Donghae’s hair left little swirls of moisture where they rested against Ryeowook’s face.

Ryeowook’s eyes, usually filled with unreadable thoughts and emotions, had gone blank and staring, like the eyes of a woodland animal caught in high-beam headlights on a highway.

Donghae was suddenly terrified in a way he could not satisfactorily explain.

‘You alright?’ he ventured, presently, and Ryeowook, trapped by his weight, shook his head—but not in answer to the question. Donghae knew because the gesture was followed with a low and icy statement.

‘Don’t you dare play games with me.’

It was unexpected—both the content and the tone were unexpected.

‘Ryeowook, I—I—’

‘ _Don’t_.’

‘I’m not…I mean it.’

Even then, nothing gave, nothing relaxed; Ryeowook remained tense and unresponsive beneath him, like a rubber band ready to snap and do serious damage. Distrust was flooding from every pore of his body: Donghae could feel it. Hell, he could almost _taste_ it— for every second he was literally trapped by Donghae’s weight, Ryeowook grew more angry and afraid.

Donghae was not good at words, and could think of only one way to convince him.

Or…well…‘Think’ was perhaps an exaggeration of the process, because from start to finish, the kiss was pure instinct. But for all that, no teeth and no tongue—Donghae just pressed his open lips to Ryeowook’s mouth, and though the response began with a cry of protest, it vanished as quickly as it came, and turned into something full of unexpected heat and terror and, bizarrely, trust, and urgency.

Donghae heard himself moan—a desperate sound he couldn’t quite relate to—as Ryeowook’s elegant long fingers crept into his hair. They curled against his scalp; fingernails sending an electric jolt through his body and his brain, although the sensation seemed to affect the entire rest of him before he gained even an iota of mental comprehension. The goosebumps coursed across his skin in waves. _This is it,_ he seemed to hear them say, _You waited your whole life for this. For him_.

Donghae started it, and in the end it was Ryeowook who pushed him away, panting, his palm cool against the hot skin of Donghae’s chest, though it concluded with more of a squeezing motion than was perhaps entirely necessary.

When Donghae growled out his reluctance, the palm grew more insistent, and the fingers still in his hair tangled there, tugging gently, both pushing and pulling him away.

‘Stop,’ Ryeowook muttered. His voice was thick, like syrup sliding off a spoon. ‘Not here. Not now.’

'Why not?' said Donghae, knowing full well how childish it sounded, yet unable to hold back his petulance, 'Wh-'

‘My room. My room is three blocks away,’ said Ryeowook. ‘There. We can talk there. Not here.’

Donghae stopped resisting Ryeowook’s hands and allowed himself to be pulled and pushed back into a sitting position while Ryeowook scrambled to his feet.

Staring unabashedly at the obvious signs of interest stirring beneath the slate grey front of Ryeowook’s chinos, he wondered, absently, when the switch had flicked, and why the hell he was fine with this now.

But the question had no sooner formed in his mind before Ryeowook was bending over, tossing things haphazardly into his bag, and the sight of his glutes and muscular hamstrings working beneath a thin, tight layer of material was all the answer he needed.

It was a stupid question to ask. The answer was here.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry this is so short!! TTnTT Life is chaotic. The next one will make up for it I promise.


	11. Chapter 11

Donghae was so ready to go that Ryeowook had to remind him to put his shirt back on.

Thankfully, three blocks had not been an exaggeration, and it did not take long at all before they arrived at Ryeowook’s building and climbed the stairs to his room.

The room was only a small, open-plan studio, but after so many years in a shared dormitory it was almost palatial to Donghae. (In the room he shared with Hyukjae, he couldn’t open his desk drawers, because the bed was in the way.) And the truly glorious thing was that it was self-contained, with one of those frosted glass boxes for a bathroom in one corner, a galley kitchen along one wall, and a double bed filling most of the remaining space. It was clean, and it smelled nice, though faintly chemical, like paint and other substances he didn’t know the names of. And it was filled with art. There was clearly some system to how it had all been arranged, but it was bursting at the seams: every horizontal surface was covered in sketches, canvases, and art supplies; there was a stack of sketchbooks on top of a plastic bureau that reached almost to the ceiling. Every vertical surface, on the other hand, served to prop up canvas upon canvas of finished and unfinished paintings.

Donghae took off his shoes at the entrance; it seemed like the right thing to do, despite Ryeowook’s protests that it was unnecessary.

Ryeowook also told him to sit down and make himself at home, but the only place to sit down was the bed.

So Donghae sat. But he couldn't shake off thoughts of the connotations of the bed. There was nowhere else to be, and there was no way for it to be anything but intimate. The bed was unmade, and, unbidden, his mind conjured up an image of a sleepy Ryeowook lying tousled and tangled in the soft, white sheets-

‘Something to drink? Eat?’

He shook his head, and Ryeowook, after a moment’s hesitation, came to sit beside him, perched on the edge of the bed, feet firmly on the floor and hands fidgeting in his lap.

He was silent for a long time.

Donghae chose to wait, making a close study of Ryeowook’s high cheekbones and dark eyelashes.

He noticed, not for the first time, how slender Ryeowook’s throat was; how his pulse fluttered visibly in the vulnerable spot just below his jawline, and the white skin of the back of his neck emerged, smooth and flawless, from beneath the mop of thick, dark hair. It looked like it would be soft to touch, and Donghae had to tamp down on the impulse to reach out.

Eventually, Ryeowook looked up at him. ‘Did you really mean it?’ he asked, quietly.

‘Yeah.’

‘You don’t just mean “like”, like, friend like.’

‘Doesn’t seem like it,’ said Donghae, half bravado, half a futile attempt to be casual.

‘No,’ Ryeowook agreed, frowning slightly, and Donghae's resolve faltered.

‘I’m…sorry,’ he said, scooting forward so that he and Ryeowook sat shoulder to shoulder, and their eyes needn’t meet.

There was no script for this. It had never happened before, and was unlikely to happen again, and he had no idea what he was doing.

In all honesty, he was sorriest for the fact that even when he scooted forward in an effort to behave himself, his gaze was drifting inexorably to the front of Ryeowook’s pants, and the pace of his heartbeat increasing, unsteadily but insistently.

It was creeping back to him again—that sense of all feelings and sensations being magnified. For instance, he didn’t need to _see_ Ryeowook to know that the other man’s frown only deepened at the apology; he didn’t need eye contact to know that those dark eyes were flashing like hot coals when they fixed on his profile.

‘For what, exactly?’

‘I’m not usually like this.’

‘Like what, exactly?’ A long pause, and then another question, softer still.

It was too much—he was too close, his warmth like a beacon, beckoning.

'You have something to ask me?'

'I don't know,' Donghae whispered. 'I'm still not sure what I'm asking for.'

He breathed in, long and deep, savouring Ryeowook’s scent and taste and space. The distance between them closed, as though they were opposite polarities drawn together. The tips of their noses touched as they sought each others' lips out, equal parts shy and determined. Ryeowook’s long fringe was soft where it brushed against Donghae’s skin.


End file.
